


the truth in the serum

by impossiblepluto



Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Cold Open Challenge, Drugged Jack Dalton (MacGyver TV 2016), Episode: s01e12 Screwdriver, Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort, blink and you'll miss it Mac Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:40:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25127899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossiblepluto/pseuds/impossiblepluto
Summary: The flight home and multiple hugs after Jack's rescue from the holding cell.Day Two of the Cold Open Challenge: 1x12 Screwdriver
Relationships: Jack Dalton & Angus MacGyver (MacGyver TV 2016)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 71





	the truth in the serum

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my-whortleberry-friend who gave me the opening line for a "Six Sentence Story" challenge over on tumblr a few weeks ago.  
> Instead of editing last night like I'd planned to, I went to sleep early with a migraine. Think of any mistakes, half-finished sentences or wonky phrasing as a fun drinking game. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who is participating in this Cold Open Challenge! Only two days in and I'm already behind on reading but seeing these new stories popping up makes me so excited!

The hug is a surprise and, despite his inclination towards improvisation, is not part of his plan. 

Though, none of this would be part of his plan. He would have insisted, did insist, on finding another way, but timing and opportunity were not on their side. 

“I love ya, buddy,” Jack cries as he launches himself into Mac’s arms again. Cradling Mac’s head against his shoulder and running a hand through his shaggy blond hair. His voice cracks. “Thought for sure you were a goner that time, Mac. Don’t do that to me. Don’t make me keep going without you.”

That’s the same thought Mac had when the hours ticked on with Jack in the hands of a terrorist.

Mac had been expecting bruises. Blackened eyes, bloodied nose, broken ribs. When he envisioned half-carrying his partner from his cell it had been from blood loss and a head injury. 

“I know big guy,” Mac pats Jack’s back. “All part of the plan, remember?” 

The words turn to ash in Mac’s mouth. Because it’s not his plan. He hates this plan. He hates the way Jack is so quick to suggest it. To accept it. To take the hits and be the distraction. Allowing Mac to do his thing while keeping him safely away from the blows. 

_I can take the hits._ Jack promises when Mac reluctantly admits that this plan is their best and only option. Reminding Mac that Jack has trained for this sort of thing. Has lived through being bait and being tortured. And maybe part of him believes that he deserves the punishment, retribution for the things he did in a past life, long before he became a tool in Mac’s arsenal. 

“Um…” there’s a hoarse sob. “Yeah?”

And even with his memory spotty enough that he can’t mount a successful counterargument, Jack knows that it’s a fib on Mac’s part. 

“I’m fine and you're going to be fine, but we can’t keep doing this. We’re never going to make ex-fil.”

“Doin’ what?” Jack's voice is muffled against Mac’s neck. 

“The I-was-so-sure-I-lost-you hug,” Mac says, wrestling free of Jack’s hands and looking into pinpoint pupils that, regardless of the sodium pentathol coursing through his veins, have the audacity to look worried. Worried about Mac. 

Jack Dalton is a hypocrite. He yells and rants and scolds Mac about taking insane risks with his life but he’s only too happy to throw his own away as long as it keeps Mac safe. To say that he couldn’t possibly continue living if something happened to Mac but he doesn’t extend that same courtesy. How does he imagine Mac would find the strength to keep going if he lost Jack?

And they both know the risks. They both know that they’re laying their lives on the line every time they’re wheels up on a new mission. They’ve both lived through worse. That doesn’t make it easier to see his partner hurting. 

Beads of sweat peppered Jack’s forehead and chest when Mac burst into his holding cell, fists flying and chocolate sauce leaking under the door. His breaths came just a hitch too fast. Eyes too wide. And the pulse under Mac’s fingers when he untied the ropes was tachycardic. Jack squirmed restlessly in his seat.

“Alright, time to go,” Mac said, slapping Jack’s knees as he got to his feet, ignoring the stab of pain in his freshly punched hand.

“Hey, it’s really good to see you,” Jack reached out, hands flopping as he tried latching onto Mac and missed

“Yeah, you too,” Mac said with a soft shake of his head. 

Eyes imploring and soft, and maybe faintly wet, Jack whispered, “A big hug?”

“We’ll save it for after the flight,” Mac began before he found himself with both arms full of his shaky, unsteady partner. 

“I love ya, buddy.” The hand tightened in Mac’s hair, pulling Mac closer to his chest, cradling his head. “You scared me.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” Mac whispered. The naked fear on Jack’s face when he pulled away gave him pause. If he’d realized that rather than fists Jack’s captor had gone for the drugs to alter his mind and make him susceptible to suggestion Mac might have gone for something less dramatic than faking his death. 

Seeing Jack scared, eyes wet with grief and despair, rocked Mac’s carefully constructed equilibrium. The vulnerability of fear, not for himself, but at the loss of his partner shakes Mac’s worldview. Jack is vocal about Mac’s worth, his importance, but to see that written in his face and portrayed in his actions makes Mac still with uncertainty. 

There’s something about the knowledge that Jack’s censors, his brain-to-mouth filter being more offline than normal and saying these words, acting on this impulse that makes Mac’s heart stutter in his chest. 

“Right, right,” Jack nods vigorously, looping Mac’s arm over his shoulders and lurching forward, one staggering step after the next. “Gotta get to ex-fil. Gotta make sure you’re safe.”

Mac has his hands full on their trek through the rough-hewn stone hallways of the compound. Pushing their bound, gagged and broken-nosed prisoner ahead of him, while coordinating Jack’s flailing limbs and further delayed by Jack’s frequent surprised gasps and subsequent hugs, reliving the moment he was sure Mac was shot, bleeding out and dying on the other side of the door and helpless to do anything to save him.

Jack is a tactile guy when he’s got his wits firmly about him. Always reaching out for fist bumps and back slaps. Or the occasional hair ruffle and hug if he thinks he can get away with it and Mac will allow it. 

Mac hears the sudden huff that has come to serve as a warning of Jack’s impending need to throw his arms around Mac’s neck and places a hand on Jack’s chest with a small flinch. “No. No hugs. Keep moving.”

“But- but- Mac,” Jack beseeches, turning his head toward his partner, straining against the hand on his chest that shouldn’t be enough to stall his movements but at this moment is. 

“Uh-uh. Eyes front.” Mac moves his hand from Jack’s chest to his stubbly cheek and pushes his partner’s face away, feeling the muscles form a deep frown. “Keep moving.”

“But Mac,” Jack whines. 

“After the flight,” Mac says firmly. 

Jack whines. Mutters unintelligibly under his breath while Mac tries valiantly to keep a smirk from twitching across his lips. 

He stops them at the door, scanning the street for signs that they’ve been made, that the guards he incapacitated on his way in roused or freed themselves. He pushes his prisoner out into the street, pulling Jack along, eyes watering in the bright sunlight that bounces off the white sand. 

“Get in the car,” Mac orders, shoving his prisoner into the backseat behind the driver and tying his hands to the “oh-shit” handle above the door. “Passenger seat, Jack.”

Jack scowls, freezes with his hand on the driver’s side door, looking for all the world like he’s about to argue but obeys. He clambers into the vehicle, sitting nearly backwards in the seat to keep an eye on their prisoner. Mac adjusts the rearview mirror giving himself a clear line of sight to the man’s bound hands. 

Arriving at the airfield, Mac secures their prisoner in the hold before directing a staggering Jack up the boarding steps. 

“Nope, you go ahead, take the couch,” Mac says, steering Jack that way. Keeping an arm tucked under Jack’s shoulder and righting him as he stumbles over his own feet at the sudden change in direction. 

“Lotta turbulence,” Jack complains as an explanation of his unsteady gait, tumbling onto the couch with a gentle shove from Mac. He tries pushing himself to his feet again. “Should check on the pilot. See why he’s not climbing to get us out of this pocket.”

“No,” Mac says firmly, holding Jack down with a hand on his chest. “We haven’t taken off yet.”

Jack scowls. “Well, why the hell not? I should talk to the pilot.”

“Sit. No one wants your backseat flying.” 

“But Mac, I lost ya today. I don’t want to lose ya for real in a plane crash,” Jack’s eyes stare at him, naked grief on his face. 

“Jack, you didn’t lose me. I’m fine. Not a- not a scratch.” Mac holds his arms out at his sides for Jack’s inspection. “See?”

“Hmmm, ya sure?”

“You’re the one they were drugging and beating on. Let me help you this time.” Mac waits, eyebrows raised and an arm crossed against his chest. Watching the wariness in Jack’s eyes ease, for the tension to dissipate and for him to settle back on the couch with a huff before he moves to the back of the plane and obtains their field medical kit. 

Mac kneels on the floor, placing the kit on the seat next to Jack. 

“Watcha gonna do?” Jack watches suspiciously as Mac rustles through the kit, pulling out gauze and tape. 

“Take this questionably sterile IV out,” Mac says, peeling back the tape. “Some fluids would probably help clear your system but I have a feeling you’ll object to that.”

“Can’t ya just use that one?”

Mac presses on the edematous skin around the hub and taps the clear tubing of the j-loop. “I think it’s infiltrated. Besides, whatever he was giving you is still in the tubing. I don’t want to give you another jolt.” 

If necessary, Mac could probably reason with Jack and get him to consent another IV. He could probably hold him down long enough to get one started if he really needed to. Or bore him to sleep if it came down to it.

“As long as you promise to keep drinking the whole flight home and don’t start acting weirder than you already are, I won’t poke you again.”

“Deal,” Jack says, holding out his hand for a shake. Instead, Mac captures it and finishes peeling back the tape and removing the cannula, cleaning the puncture site gently, and slathering antibiotic ointment across it.

Jack’s mouth quirks watching Mac work. “I love ya, buddy.” He attempts leaning forward and drawing Mac into another hug. 

“I know, stop, I know. Let me look at you,” Mac holds Jack back. 

“Mac, that’s my job. I look at you,” Jack reaches forward, pushing aside Mac’s leather jacket. 

“Not this time,” Mac contends with Jack’s searching fingers. 

“But he shot ya. Mac, he shot you! I saw the blood,” Jack’s eyes widen in concern.

“Chocolate sauce and red ink. Not blood. No bullet holes,” Mac slides off his jacket, tossing it in the seat behind him, and leaning back slightly for inspection. “See?”

Jack scowls and scans; fingers reaching out to poke Mac’s chest.

“Satisfied?”

Jack harrumphs. 

“Now, are you hurting anywhere?” Despite the drugs, Jack is moving relatively well, so Mac’s not expecting to find anything too serious. Still, he rucks up Jack’s Henley top, hands skimming over the bruising across Jack’s ribs and belly. “Tenderness?” He looks up with concerned eyes when Jack squirms.

“Uh-uh.” Jack shimmies in his seat, waiting for Mac to finish his assessment. “Now a hug?

“We’ll hug again when you’re feeling better.”

Jack pouts. “A hug would make me feel better. Get my hands on you and make sure you’re okay.”

“You just did,” Mac waffles. It’s just enough for Jack to take as acquiescence and tuck Mac’s head under his chin, stroking his hair. 

* * *

Jack knows Mac is tense. 

It’s the set of his mouth as he did a prelim debrief with Thornton over the phone on the plane and informed the doctor that Jack had been held in enemy hands and drugged. Taking Jack’s blood pressure and pulse with quick, efficient movements and relaying them in clinical terms, which he does in an attempt to distance himself.

It’s the way he carried himself while supporting Jack’s wobbly legs down to Medical, easing him onto the exam bed. It’s the taut muscles in his shoulders as he sits in the chair next to Jack’s bed, reliving the mission and convincing himself that he could have done something differently. Would have come up with a different plan if given just another minute. Should have rescued Jack earlier. 

The kid is going to need a visit to Cissy, Jack’s massage therapist, soon because Jack can see the knots pulsing in his back from here. 

His birthday is too far away. Maybe he’d accept it as some sort of slightly belated New Year, new you gift, because for whatever reason, Mac won’t make an appointment for himself, even if Jack gives him a gift certificate, preferring to work through his stress and his tight muscles with a hard run.

Or other strenuous activities.

And Jack supposed that until about six months ago, Mac had someone he could regularly engage in those activities. 

Jack presses his lips together tightly. There’s still enough sodium pentothal and whatever else was mixed into that cocktail, floating around in his system that if he’s not careful, he might blurt out those thoughts. And while Mac isn’t one to get embarrassed, he doesn’t think Mac will appreciate Jack airing details about his sex life even if they are in Medical and are required to have physicals every six months and everyone knows Mac and Nicki were a thing. 

Jack squeezes his eyes together tightly, trying to derail this particular train of thought before his brain finds certain memories he’d rather not see again even if they did give Jack some sort of weird, paternal, “that’s my boy” pride at the time before he slammed the door and contemplated dousing his eyes in bleach. 

“Are you in pain?” Mac asks, leaning forward taking in the grimace on Jack’s face. 

“Nah, just thinkin’,” Jack rolls his eyes as Mac chortles. He’s relieved that Mac is at least relaxing enough to laugh at his inadvertent self-depreciation. 

Cause the kid is pissed. Somewhere on the flight home, Mac’s concern turned to not-quite anger. It’s a feeling Jack understands well. Frustration and worry bubbling over into irritation at himself and the self-sacrificing tendencies of this partner. 

He’s never big on missions that involve Jack getting himself captured. Takes it as some sort of personal failure if he can’t come up with a better ploy. 

Not that they haven’t both used the ruse more times than Jack can count at the moment, but when Jack suggests playing the role of the prisoner, Mac always contrives some rationale that it’s dumb and a dozen or so arguments of why Jack shouldn’t risk himself like that. 

The hypocrite. Like Mac doesn’t take the exact same risks himself on a regular basis. Like he doesn’t throw himself into danger and make Jack watch and pick up the pieces later. 

For different reasons. Jack has a career full of death that he’s trying to atone for. Mac has a lifetime of being shown that he’s not enough. 

Mac argued and scowled and ultimately had to concede, arms folded across his chest, scolding Jack to be careful and not provoke his captors and it was almost enough to make Jack smile. Cause it sounded like a lecture that Mac has been on the receiving end of more’n a few times and damn, he must be listening at least a little bit because if he twanged a bit more and dropped a few consonants Jack would almost think it was his words coming out of Mac’s mouth. 

It’s kind of a blur after that. They started in on the drugs sooner than Jack anticipated, which really is fine with him, fewer bruises that way. But harder to keep track of the passage of time. He’d mentally calculated a playlist of Jack Dalton Greatest Hits, but a few choruses and verses got away from him, his tempo slightly off and he worried that he wouldn’t be ready when Mac finally burst through the door. 

The blood pressure cuff on his arm cycles. 

“You’re being unusually compliant.” Mac slouches in the chair next to Jack’s bed in Phoenix Medical. Sweatshirt pulled up over shower damp hair, warding off the chill that permeates the medical complex. Too-long sleeves brush against the splint on his right hand. 

Jack ratted him out to the doc as soon as his head was clear enough to piece together what Mac was trying to hide, ignoring the glare his partner sent him. The pain on Mac's face as he shook out his hand after punching the terrorist, breaking through Jack's foggy memory. The flinches when Mac tried to take care of him on the plane ride home. 

Catching Mac’s hand and turning it over, the fourth and fifth metatarsals bruised and swollen. “You told me you were fine.”

“I said I wasn’t shot.”

Jack scowled. “Nah, you said that too but you also said ‘not a scratch.’”

“Do you see a scratch?”

Despite his weak defense, Mac won himself an x-ray, a splint for his boxer’s fractures and Jack’s promise that as soon as he was released and Mac was healed, they were going to the gym for some sparring. 

His boy throws a better punch than that. Maybe Jack wasn’t the only one adversely affected by the mission and fear for his partner’s life. The rescue and plane ride home is a mostly blank space in his memory, but there are strong emotions of horror and a need to protect itching under the surface. And Mac keeps insisting that he wasn’t _scratched_ \- Delta code for a gunshot wound. It makes Jack wonder how close it was. The way his heart seizes, it was closer than Mac is letting on.

“Pfft. I’m always compliant.”

“You’re always volunteering me to look after you to try to get out of Medical sooner. _Mac can observe me just fine_ ,” he mimics Jack’s drawl.

Jack raises an eyebrow.

“Not that I’m not willing to do that. I’m just pretty sure you’d volunteer me to perform surgery on the deck if you thought it would get you home faster.”

“I’m sure you could figure it out.”

Mac shrugs. 

“Come on, if necessary you could trach me with your little red knife and a ballpoint pen, right? Don’t look at me like that, you know you’ve thought about it.”

“I mean…maybe... if we were in the middle of nowhere with no other options…” Mac’s voice trails off, his non-splinted fingers flicking against each other. Jack smiles to himself as Mac distracts himself with the mental exercise Jack provided. 

Jack knows it won’t last, and knows why this particular stay in Medical bugs Mac. Besides the obvious misplaced guilt that he's carrying.

“Okay, I admit, I’m not always a model patient, better’n you but that’s not saying much.”

"That is so not true. You are at least as bad.”

“Well, when it comes to things we can take care of at home, like minor explosions or concussions or little bitty bullet grazes I might get to be about as ornery as you. But this one I understand.”

Mac shifts uncomfortably. “I don’t.”

"I know. I’m not thrilled to spend the night with someone watching my every move, not even privacy in the bathroom, but I understand the need for the psych holds.”

“It’s arbitrary,” Mac argues and Jack cocks his head, indicating that he’s listening while his boy gears up for a familiar rant. “There’s no evidence to suggest that an agent is a higher risk to himself or to others after twenty-four hours in enemy hands compared to twelve hours or forty-eight hours. It depends on the agent and the situation.”

“Careful, hoss, you’re about to argue us into mandatory holds after every mission. Getting caught as an infiltration tactic is our bread and butter.”

“So, if I’m held in enemy hands for twenty-three hours and fifty-nine minutes I’m free to go home? What if your watch is fast or slow?”

“I think it’s the spirit of the words…”

“You spent twenty-four hours in enemy hands and now we’re going to lock you up for another twenty-four. That sounds like a great idea for an agent’s mental health.”

“It’s not my favorite way to spend a day either, but it helps to level the playing field a little bit. Not completely, but it might help prevent an agent who is better at hiding the trauma from getting less help than one who isn’t lying to get an early release.” 

Most of the time if they’ve been forced into a hold that long they’re stuck in Medical for mostly physical reasons anyway. It’s less chafing that way. 

Mac hates having someone crawling around in his brain trying to figure out what makes him tick. 

Jack isn’t particularly thrilled with the idea either, the forced down time with limited distractions isn’t fun but he’s been in dark places before where his brain has been the enemy. He needs to know his brain isn’t going to freeze on him when Mac’s life is on the line. It’s one of the few stays he won’t argue for an early release. Or at least not too much.

And especially not today, when a good chunk of his memory is missing. He wants to make sure the enemy didn’t plant something in there that’s gonna come back and bite him later. 

“I just want to go home.”

Jack gives a confused smile and shake of his head, looking down at his ligature-free hospital gown then over at Mac, fully clothed in the chair next to his bed. Anything that could be used as a weapon against himself or others locked away or removed down to the garbage bags and nitrile gloves, even the call light secured to the side rails with zip ties, though he’s sure if Mac wanted to, or felt like he needed to, he could figure something out.

“Bud, I know I’m coming down from a not so great high, but I’m pretty sure I’m the one under hold. You can go home any time. As much as I appreciate you hanging out with me, keeping me company, you ain’t stuck here.”

Mac looks up, surprise written across his face and his brow furrowing. “But you are.” 

Maybe it's still the drugs, running amok in his system that causes his eyes to water at the truth he sees written on Mac's face. The drugs, not affection for his kid making him prone to teary eyes and susceptible to suggestions. He knows though, if Mac deigns to call him on influx of emotion, he's not going to be able to lie.

Mac settles deeper in the recliner, crossing his arms, gearing up to argue his case if he needs to. “So, until you’re released to hang out on my couch and sleep off the rest of those drugs, I am too and this is home.”

Speaking the truth, even without the benefit of drugs in his system.

Jack tries and fails to resist reaching across the bed, arms extended to his boy for another hug. 


End file.
